Burrow
by yamikinoko
Summary: .Gaara. Birds have nests and the fox his hole, but the Raccoon has nowhere, maybe somewhere?


**Disclaimer**: _I do not own __**Naruto**__. It is the property of __**Masashi Kishimoto**__; I merely borrow the characters for my own amusement._

* * *

**Burrow**

_Demon-child_, they whisper, behind closed doors and paper-thin partitions when they think he isn't there, isn't listening—

_Disgusting, vile creature_, they hiss, _It doesn't deserve to live_.

When their endless diatribes cease – pause, really (for all that lives needs to breathe) – in mocking tones and ugly looks they call him Gaara of the Sand.

Not Gaara of the Village of Sand but instead, Gaara of that disgusting, gritty substance that can provide no sustenance for – useful – crops and no element of comfort to any beholder.

There are none who have any use for sand and certainly none who have any use for _him_. Sand makes up the surroundings and pathways of the village. They tread upon him in similar manner—with perfect disregard.

It is one thing for a child to be dangerous (either to itself or to others) but another thing entirely for the child to know it.

Gaara knows he is dangerous.

He knows that if he should lose his control – even his temper – he has within his tiny, shaky grasp the power to obliterate any remaining scrap of existence into a deluge of incarnadine—a splash of crimson satin.

It puzzles him that amongst the many assassins dispatched to eradicate him (a mere child—how laughable), there has only been one sent from outside the village. Then he realizes from whom the majority takes their orders and the answer becomes readily clear.

Why should the other villages expend money, men, and supplies in attempted assassinations when the Kazekage – his father, no less – was willing to garner the bill himself?

Why indeed.

Each attempt on his life is simply – quite simply – foiled. There is simply too much to lose by underestimating a diminutive, life-worn child—a child whose father who has prepared him for death (families—what family).

He begins to wonder why he isn't called Gaara of the Blood instead.

* * *

His sister Temari is an enigma, he finds, as he watches her curiously from afar. Temari is akin to the wind, though she is like the gusts created by her fan—brash, bold, brutal. There are no breezes nor billowy winds about her, only the primal, fearsome force of tornadoes and hurricanes.

And she is afraid of him.

This much he can see from what little interaction he has with his older sister. He sees that there are brief moments when she treats him as everyone else – with marked, calculating attention – and others when she will draw close to him, concern glimmering through the coarse bravado-

There are always those moments when that muscle in her jaw jumps and he very nearly visibly sees her steel herself—to not turn and flee. He doesn't understand why she doesn't.

It is evident he has long been – despised – alone.

He watches her swallow and her lips thin as she takes a deliberate step forward towards him when no one else dares—tells him to trust his big sister.

(He, the little brother, to trust his older sister.)

Temari is hard to understand.

* * *

His brother, Kankuro, is less so. Kankuro is arrogant, so much so that he needs several heads – three dolls and his own – in order to carry all that hot air. Kankuro is confident—enough to spare.

Sometimes, Gaara likes that Kankuro is around all the time. His older brother exudes so much self-assurance that he can't help but wonder why he can't reach out and snatch some for himself—be confident himself.

(Something – something near the area where he thinks his heart should be – tells him he could never be like Kankuro.)

Sometimes, Gaara can't stand being near him.

It becomes a feeling he is ashamed of when Kankuro saves him a delicacy filched from the kitchen, when Kankuro defends him – loudly – before the council of elders, when Kankuro grins at him as if sharing a joke – just between the two of them – and calls him little brother.

Still, it is a long time before Gaara realizes that Kankuro, though unable to _give_ him confidence, is still able to lend it to him, to support him and take him higher than he has ever gone before.

* * *

Once, Gaara had no respect for the Kazekage as his father. In fact, he hardly respected the man himself. He simply cannot hold any regard for a man who thinks nothing of creating a tool of a human being and choosing to dispose of it at any second he so chooses.

So much more so when that tool is himself.

And so when he hears other boys speak – in passing adoration – of their fathers, his impassive, emotionless features register the slightest hint of derision. Such did he think the delusions of the innocent—nothing but the most worthless, fallacious trash.

It is almost safe to say that he despises his father. In fact, one would not be far from the truth to claim such—he himself can give no reason why his father necessitates such emotion. He can hardly bear to even call the man "father".

(He has no need for such people—such a person.)

His teacher remains markedly silent – as much as possible – regarding the Kazekage. Baki seems to understand that Gaara hates even the mention of his so-called father.

Baki looks at him and knows how he feels, with one look, one glance. His well-being (welfare) is taken into every consideration at all times, seemingly without thought.

With someone like Baki around, Gaara begins to believe – just that little bit – in the entity known as a father.

In a man to call Father.

* * *

There was a time before he grew up (before Sabaku was ripped forcibly from him, before he became Kazekage) when he found himself abandoned and a time when he thought himself alone.

(That was a time of acutest, most unbearable misery.)

Now he realizes, as he looks around him, that there will always be people who can't move beyond fearing him, beyond remembering the monster he used to be. There will always people who cannot help but look at him with a sneer on their lips and a damning judgment on the tip of their tongues, those who will address him as "Kazekage-sama" yet with every nuance of every word shriek that they think themselves better than he.

Now, he sees those people who will stand behind him – beside him – and in between chill-inspiring glares whisper, declare, and shout in his ears that he is – will always be – worth more, so much more than ten thousand such idiots.

_Now_, he sees.

This is his family—his beloved family.


End file.
